| |
| FROM plains that reel to southward, dim, | |
| The road runs by me white and bare; | |
| Up the steep hill it seems to swim | |
| Beyond, and melt into the glare. | |
| |
| Upward half-way, or it may be | 5 |
| Nearer the summit, slowly steals | |
| A hay-cart, moving dustily | |
| With idly clacking wheels. | |
| |
| By his cart’s side the wagoner | |
| Is slouching slowly at his ease, | 10 |
| Half hidden in the windless blur | |
| Of white dust puffing to his knees. | |
| |
| This wagon on the height above, | |
| From sky to sky, on either hand, | |
| Is the sole thing that seems to move | 15 |
| In all the heat-held land. | |
| |
| Beyond me in the fields the sun | |
| Soaks in the grass and hath his will; | |
| I count the marguerites one by one; | |
| Even the buttercups are still. | 20 |
| |
| On the brook yonder not a breath | |
| Disturbs the spider or the midge; | |
| The water-bugs draw close beneath | |
| The cool gloom of the bridge. | |
| |
| Where the far elm-tree shadows flood | 25 |
| Dark patches in the burning grass, | |
| The cows, each with her peaceful cud, | |
| Lie waiting for the heat to pass. | |
| |
| From somewhere on the slope near by, | |
| Into the pale depth of the noon | 30 |
| A wandering thrush slides leisurely | |
| His thin revolving tune. | |
| |
| In intervals of dreams I hear | |
| The cricket from the droughty ground; | |
| The grasshoppers spin into mine ear | 35 |
| A small innumerable sound. | |
| |
| I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze; | |
| The burning sky-line blinds my sight; | |
| The woods far-off are blue with haze; | |
| The hills are drenched in light. | 40 |
| |
| And yet to me not this or that | |
| Is always sharp or always sweet; | |
| In the sloped shadow of my hat | |
| I lean at rest, and drain the heat; | |
| |
| Nay more, I think some blessèd power | 45 |
| Hath brought me wandering idly here; | |
| In the full furnace of this hour | |
| My thoughts grow keen and clear. | |
| |
